


Riding Roughshod

by wakandan_wardog



Series: Wardog's Tony Stark Bingo 2019 [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Centaurs, Deviates From Canon, Dragons, Extremis Tony Stark, Flirting, Gen, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Includes Scenes From Canon, M/M, Magical Creatures, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Canon Compliant, Older Man/Younger Man, Protective Team, Puns & Word Play, Secret Identity, Shapeshifting, Sirens, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Urban Fantasy, Young Eccentric Billionaire Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-02-18 15:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18702187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakandan_wardog/pseuds/wakandan_wardog
Summary: The Heroic Captain America wakes up in a world that is integrated far beyond what he would have dreamed of when he went into the ice, though he never expected to be a part of it. A pioneer of mixed-race teams back in his own day, the last thing he expects is to be called upon to do so once again, this time gathering a group of heroes from some rather unlikely places. If that weren't enough to worry about, there's a wild-card Soldier with a familiar fighting style making trouble at top-security bases all over the world... and a shiny red and gold suit that doesn't seem to answer to anyone. That's to say nothing of the kid genius that's supposedlybehindit.This is a Fill for Tony Stark Bingo 2019R4: CentaursThis is a Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019K3: Tony Stark/ Iron Man





	1. Chapter 1

In the seventy years since the noble Captain America hijacked Red Skull’s Valkyrie and buried the advanced plane and her deadly cargo in ice, the world has changed significantly. Still, the heroic actions of Captain America and his Howling Commandos have not been forgotten. With the encouragement of the public, many governments have elevated the Commandos to a romanticized status, considering them icons of sacrifice and nobility. They are lauded in the history books, honored with plaques and the construction of several grand monuments to their various acts of valor.

One such monument stands in New York, the birthplace of both Captain America and the company that has done the most to find the hero’s body and bury him with full honors: Stark Industries. Commissioned by the late Howard Stark in memory of the hero he also considered a friend, a larger than life elaborately carved marble construction stands in the dedicated Heroes Park beside the towering Stark Industries tower.

Once a formal garden, the young Stark heir remodeled it in the style of a classic park and reopened it to the public for the seventieth anniversary of the Captain’s Sacrifice. Now soft golden lights illuminate the wide and wandering paths beneath shade-providing trees, and a variety of benches suitable for all walks of life are scattered about the property. No place is better lit than the Captain’s Statue, the golden and cream-colored stone monument illuminated at all hours of the day or night.

A woman in a tac suit and coat stands before the statue, gazing up at the Captain’s stoic expression. The carved plans of the helmet obscure his face beyond a general impression of a proud jaw, high cheekbones, keen eyes. There’s no telling what he really looks like beyond the lower part of his face, then again there’s no real assurance the artist made a faithful likeness. To a critical eye, it seems like he is broader and more muscular due to artistic license. Then again, perhaps that is just the weight of a legend.

It is clear that the artist rendered Captain America’s signature armor with care, the raised planes of the star the highest point on his chest. It matches the shield attached to his uplifted left arm, held slightly ahead of him as though he is guarding himself while charging. Golden forelegs lash out at thin air, the proud centaur hero balanced on powerfully carved hind-legs. There are different textures to the stone where it shifts from carved muscle-beneath-hide to maile, leather or plate armor. It was commissioned with care, the Stark fortune speaking loudly to artistic quality.

“Hill.” Communications whisper to life, prompting the woman to tilt her head contemplatively, tucking a strand of dark hair behind a delicately finned ear. “Are you done? They think he’ll be waking up soon.”

“On my way, sir,” Maria replies obediently, giving the statue one last glance over.

The faint incline of the statue’s base gives the impression the Captain is surging uphill, the bannering length of his tail trailing to the rocky ground behind him. That detail in itself is unusual, most centaur soldiers of that era bobbed their tails, allowing for less of a handhold to an enemy. Still, the overall effect of the streaming golden hair portrayed in the stone is a more majestic impression than a cropped tail would have been.

He appears every inch a patriotic hero immortalized in stone, a legend.

Maria heaves a sigh, turning her back on the golden stone. She has no interest in stepping into the lobby of SI, in asking to see the young CEO and head of R&D. There are more important things demanding her time, today. “Time to see if the man behind the myth will live up to his own hype.”

*

Steven Grant Rogers awakens in a strange room, head and chest pillowed on an unfamiliar cot. His fore and hind legs are folded beneath him, the heavy weight of his cornsilk tail bound in what feels like a simple braid and draped over his hocks. On the small nightstand beside his bed sits a delicate lamp, a pitcher of water and an empty glass. The walls of the room around him are half white and half green, bisected by a withers-high chair-rail line of molding. The room doesn’t seem centaur in design, but it’s a decent enough size like it might be a general treatment suite.

Set on either of the far walls are narrow windows letting in soft sunlight and a gentle breeze. Below one window, the white painted coils of the heater below it standing out sharply against the green wall. The click of a distant machine and the far-off roar of traffic is almost drowned out by the static drone of a radio report on a local baseball game, almost.

 _‘Something ain’t right.’_ Steve thinks to himself, sitting upright instantly. He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know how he got there. _‘The last thing I remember is losing Bucky, fighting Red Skull, then the ice…’_

There’s a white cotton tee pulled tight over his torso, the SSR eagle over a double circle printed across his chest in black ink. He doesn’t remember owning or even wearing something like it before, and can’t help but wonder what happened to his armor and the long sleeve shirt he wore beneath it. Even the fabric of this shirt feels wrong, so much so that he runs a hand down his own ribs to toy with the hem where it rubs at the start of his palomino coat, just below his waist.

The door snaps open a moment later, a redheaded woman stepping into the room with lips stained two shades darker than Peggy’s were the last time he saw her. It had always been a significant detail about Peggy, that her hair was often curled and her lips painted red, even on the frontlines of the war against whatever forces the Red Skull might muster. This woman doesn’t look like a nurse, wearing a button-down shirt, tie, and a pencil skirt. She doesn’t look like a soldier or like Peggy, either.

“Captain Rogers, good morning.” She murmurs, injecting something like relief into her tone as she glances at her watch. “Or should I say, good afternoon? It’s so good to see you finally awake.”

“Where am I?” Steve growls, unfolding his forelegs and sitting up with a chime of his metal-shod hooves on the tile floor.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City.” She replies smoothly, offering a gentle smile when he frowns.

It rings of falsehood and he shoots a glance at the building beyond the window before giving her a narrow-eyed glare. “Where am I really?”

There’s a nervous shake of her head, a wavering in the smile she summons. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The game, it’s from May 1941. I know, ‘cause I was there.” Steve rumbles on as the smile on her face fades, and the woman is beginning to look worried.

“You’re back with the SSR, you’re safe,” She begins, soft and nervous.

“Don’t lie to me,” The Captain snaps, surging upward to stand squarely on his own hooves, fisting his hands at his side as he steps forward to face her. “Now I’m gonna ask you again, where the hell am I?”

“Captain Rogers,”

“Who are you?”

“Captain, please,” She murmurs, fingers folding around something in her palm. The door swings open behind her and Steve is already in motion.

The Captain can hear the distant crackle of electricity, an alert somewhere set off by the device in the woman’s hand. As the door swings open three soldiers move forward, all of them dressed in black with no recognizable insignia. Steve rocks back on his haunches, a half-height-rear as he takes one look at them and decides he’s had _enough_ of the situation.

The first two he catches with ease, sinking his fingers into the front of their tac-suits and launching them toward the wall. They go through it far too easily, drywall crumbling beneath the impact of five hundred pounds of body weight and armor. With the escape route cleared Steve spins in a sharp pirouette, keeping his head low beneath the lazy spin of the ceiling fan as he launches himself across the room.

Steve gathers his legs beneath him, folding his arms up over his face as he leaps, plowing right through the last of the wall-like barrier with a lashing strike of his forelegs. He spills drywall and paint chunks into a hallway, landing in a crumble of material and a ring of iron-shod hooves. The warehouse-like flooring is a textured concrete, giving him purchase as he canters toward the double set of doors on a distant wall. Both silver handles spin under the press of his hands and the doors snap outward, spilling him into a fairly average looking marble hallway filled with people in suits, many of them carrying files or briefcases.

In either direction, there’s a scattering of bodies, an assortment of people tumbling back in reaction to his appearance in the hall. Steve stumbles to a halt, arms snapping wide as he slides to a startled stop. To his right, he can see sphinxes with leonine bodies and to his left, there’s at least one winged body turning in his direction as an intercom crackles to life. The world is evidently far more integrated than the last time he was here.

“All Agents, Code 13! I repeat, Code 13!” The woman from before calls out, and each body in the hallway reacts.

Steve darts out of reach of the first grasping hands, throwing himself into a canter as he angles for the wall of glass on the far side of the lobby-like room. He wheels left at the last moment, evading the pursuit of more bodies, and speeds down the hallway until a large set of doors appear on his right. Beyond them and the full-length windows, he can see a busy street, and it looks enough like New York that he’ll take the chance.

There’s a gentle rain falling on the New York street as Steve Rogers escapes through the front doors of a strange office building and corners sharply into a busy street. He darts past a Taxi Cab that honks as he crosses the lane, and rather than cross a second Steve turns another sharp right and gallops along with the flow of traffic. In no time at all he finds himself bearing down on Times Square, and the sudden riot of illuminated screens and strangely-bright movies make him draw to a skittering halt.

Steve spins in a circle with a ring of metal shoes on concrete, gawking at the riot of images around him and the sudden arrival of multiple dark vehicles. They split off from a straight line and screech to a halt around him, forming a circle of opening doors and outpouring agents. Noting the lingering spectators as he spins to put his back to one of the vehicles, Steve lifts his fists and prepares himself.

_‘Wish I had my Shield…’_

"At ease, soldier!" A commanding female voice barks and a woman in a black coat steps forward, making herself a target while the other agents hang back.

Steve freezes, frowning at the woman who steps toward him so boldly. "Who are you?"

“My name is Maria Hill,” She says as she tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ears. Steve can see the light blue fin-ridge sprouting from pale skin.

 _‘A Naiad?’_ Steve blinks in surprise. He wouldn’t have expected to see one of those in a city of this magnitude, they were known for their propensity to remain near the water.

Hill continues speaking, her hands at her side. “I’m the liaison for Colonel Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. You would have known us as the Strategic Scientific Reserve. I have him on the phone for you, if you don’t mind me reaching into my pocket."

Steve isn’t sure how she’s carrying a phone in a coat with lines as clean as that, but he shrugs. "By all means. Where am I?"

"46th and Broadway.” She replies, drawing a slim black rectangle out of her pocket and pushing a button. “I have him, Sir.”

“Captain Rogers, Nick Fury here.” Says a dry voice out of thin air. “I'm sorry about that little show back there, but we didn't know what your mental state might be, so we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

Steve stares at the screens on the buildings overhead, stares at the black rectangle in Maria’s hand projecting the Director’s voice. "Break what?"

There’s a moment of silence, of hesitation. "You've been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy-two years."

 _‘Seventy years….’_ Steve sucks in a breath, folding an arm over his ribs like he’s been struck, and falling back a pace.

The Serum had not only carried him through the war and nearly seven decades in the ice, it continued to function even now. There’s no hint of sweat on him, either on the clean white of the SSR shirt they dressed him in or on the proud golden pelt that covers his lower body. There’s no strain in his muscles from the distance at speed or the pounding of his hooves on the asphalt of street and sidewalk.

Hill tilts her head, drifts forward a step to make up the ground that Steve gave. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah…” Steve mutters, looking down at the road and pawing nervously with a foreleg. “I just, uh… I had a date…”


	2. Chapter 2

Watching the city beyond the solid wall of windows, a man out of time contemplates the unique perspective that a situation such as his affords him. The sidewalks are full of all sorts of people, humans in all their colors, but also those that are clearly other. The density of the population and the variation in their clothing and uniforms broadcast that they are no longer looked down upon as lesser species or separated into individual sociological groups.

A piebald centaur with the uniform jacket of a New York Police Officer halts traffic for a group of pedestrians to cross. Among them, there are three that appear to be humans but could be Shifters or weres, at least four different winged species with wings and feathers in a variety of colors, a Sphinx and two Naga. The fact that they’re all blended together, walking in daylight in a major city, tells him things have been altered more than he could hope for.

_It’s a shame Bucky isn’t here to see it._

The blond soldier smiles at the stray thought, swallowing against the tears that threaten to well up and spill from his bright blue eyes. Thoughts of Bucky aren’t much of stray anything, his best friend was one of the first thoughts when he woke up and remains at the forefront of them now, even in the wake of his bolting path through New York and the bright lights and screens he had seen all over Times Square. The world was different, but Steve was the same, and mostly he just missed his best friend.

He directs his gaze downward, watching the group until they disappear into the stairs for the subway before searching for something else to focus on. The lights may be newfangled technology, but in many ways, they’re still the same. Some of the buildings in sight are familiar, others are younger and far taller, they replace more modest structures he recalls from his youth.

As he sizes up the city he sees now to the memories of what he saw then, he concludes that it’s still home. However, it is simultaneously heart-wrenching and utterly amazing how much a city can change in a lifetime. It is a rather dazzling thing to contemplate; if it were the sort of thing people noticed. Though he supposes that most people don’t often think of it, because they’re rarely around or lucid enough to contemplate the difference at the end of such a span. He isn’t sure whether that makes him fortunate or unfortunate, in this case, but it’s true regardless.

_It’s a shame Bucky isn’t here to see it._

Arms folded across his chest, Steve Rogers stands and stares out the fragile barrier between him and a foreign city he once felt he knew like the beat of his own heart. Bright blue eyes fixed on the bustling New York street below, the Soldier Centaur pays no heed to the other people in the room with him. In spite of the sound of whispering at his back, he keeps up his wordless consideration of the street beyond and ignores the conference room he stands in. The human agents that had retrieved him hadn’t had much to say, had told him he’d wait here for the Director to brief him.

Steve was content to wait for now. If it turned out he didn’t like what this Director had to say, he had options. He was a walking weapon, even without his shield or his uniform. He was still Captain America, still the only Super Soldier, and if he wanted to get out, _he damn well would_. But for now he’d give the Director a chance, he’d listen to what this Nick Fury had to say about this whole thing.

Though he’s sure that the world is a long way from perfect, it’s easy to see how far things have come and how much they have changed just by looking at the street below. Seventy years asleep in ice, crashed in the Arctic, did anyone beyond the government officials that claim to have found him actually recall who he was? Surely after all this time, they wouldn’t need him? They said the war was over, that they had won; which meant he was done, right?

He could do, something with his life? Not that he had a plan, but maybe New York still needed artists in this day and age. With any luck, his back pay was waiting for him, and he’d have a minute to breathe and figure some things out. Things like what to do with his life if he wasn’t in the military anymore, where to go, where to live.

He hoped that the species-specific housing and career field was a thing of the past. Even if it was just in the last handful of decades, the restrictions on migration or immigration of the varying species that comprise the world had to have lessened dramatically. Steve had always thought the segregation of the species, the intricate class systems that separated them all into better and worse, had been a ridiculous policy. He was sure there were sphinxes out there that were stronger than some centaurs, and centaurs that were more suited to accounting than combat, and so on.

It had always seemed to Steve like a relic of the old world. Centuries previously there had been something of a tribal aspect to the species, often leading to the fact that it was rare to find many of them outside their nation of origin. In this way, it was easy to see which types were once conquerors and once conquered, for the conquerors seeded their species in the lands that their sovereign nation had once held dominion over.

Through centuries of battle, Europe was well populated with centaurs, werewolves and other shifters. Any country that touched ocean often had a population of mermaids or sirens or a mix of the two, with dryads and naiads living in forests and near sources of freshwater. Virtually every part of the world was home to one winged myth or another, a story based on their own unique peoples and distorted in the far-flung past.

But America had become something different, a melting pot of cultures and species. Where a centaur could live down the hall from a harpy, across the block from a werewolf, and two streets away from a sphinx without anyone thinking a thing about it.

That had been one of the goals of the SSR’s when they’d formed the Howling Commandos, back in Steve’s time. An elite unit of soldiers outside the common structure of the military, comprised of people and beings from many walks of life. A unique experiment in the depths of war, the mixed group had worked, had become one of the most effective forces out there. Since such a thing couldn’t be strictly attributed to Steve receiving the super-soldier serum that had transformed him, it seemed that their group had proved a varied team was a more effective force.

Now, looking at the world around him, it seemed to Steve that the idea had taken off. If what few glimpses he had managed to catch of the future were to be believed, New York was well and truly integrated, and so was the SHIELD building around him and the units they deployed. Though it made him miss the Commandos, it gave Steve hope for the future.

And hope was in short supply, he would take it as he found it. 

*

Near noon, the sudden arrival of a large golden dragon over Central Park whips tourists into a photo frenzy. Cameras and phones were immediately pointed to the sky, and within moments photos and video were trending on various social media platforms. An immediate alert rang out on the SHIELD monitor network, prompting Observation Technicians into motion.

Distracted from his game of Galaga, Agent of SHIELD Andrew Warren immediately leaps into action, combing the provided material in the hopes of determining the Shifter’s identity. The fact that a golden dragon has been seen with Iron Man on several occasions is of extreme interest to SHIELD, but there is no requirement for an individual to disclose their shifted form on any form of documentation.

Other than a shiver of static over the screen during a particular download, the SHIELD systems work as swiftly as ever. There is no information about the public identity of a known golden dragon shifter.

With an annoyed sigh Agent Warren shifts back to his Galaga screen, and notes there’s been some sort of malfunction. Records of his previous high scores have been wiped out, the game utterly reset.

_Damn_.

Doing a few more taunting loops over the largest concentration of nature in New York, the golden dragon eventually gives a low, rumbling roar before turning his back on the Park. With a sweep of powerful wings, he vanishes in the direction of Fifth Avenue, disappearing among the old, stately buildings.

At twelve fifteen p.m., a handsome African American man steps out of the gates of Stark Mansion and hails a cab with a careless flick of his wrist. His simple dress of jeans, a black leather jacket and henley aside, he carries himself with confidence as well as the faintest hint of a military bearing, and no small amount of danger.

“Stark Industries, quick as you can.” He murmurs with a flash of a sharp smile and a flicker of black and gold eyes. “Impress me and I tip two hundred percent.”

“Hang on, sir.” The cabbie grins. “Prepare to be impressed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is hogging a lot of the limelight but someone managed to sneak in, and we'll be meeting more characters soon!


	3. Chapter 3

“Captain,” A female voice interrupts his contemplation of the street below, prompting Steve to turn back toward the door. 

Maria Hill, the agent from before, has returned and stands waiting in the doorway. Sometime between showing Steve to this office to wait, and her return just moments ago, she’s peeled away the coat and gotten rid of the half-dozen agents shadowing her. Now alone, she stands well-armed in a dark blue tac-suit. 

“Agent,” Steve replies, pacing across the room to join her.

There are various black patches and insignia on the jacket, most notably a simplistic eagle on one shoulder and a dark American flag on the other. Steve doesn’t recognize the eagle or the narrow flag bar below it, though the black name tag on her left breast pocket is somewhat standard. So too is the black belt at her waist and the holstered gun at her hip. In the soft office light, her blue eyes are bright, and the dainty fins on her ears gleam. 

“I take it your Director is ready to see me?”

“You’ve been invited to speak with him, yes,” She agrees, turning on her heel and stepping back out of the room while gesturing at him to follow. “This way, Captain.” 

“Of course, Agent Hill.” Steve returns politely, waving an arm in a gesture for her to lead the way. 

Without a backward glance, Hill sets a brisk pace. Faintly amused, Steve steps into the hall after her, moving over the tile with a soft chime of hooves. Though she would likely leave an average citizen in the dust with her pace, Steve is easily able to keep up with his longer stride. 

As they walk, he considers her with a faint frown. “I take it I am no longer considered a hostile?”

There’s a sharp turn and another stretch of hallway, though this one has a narrow railing to one side and clearly overlooks an open drop to a lower floor. Ahead of them, there is a gap in the railing that indicates stairs, and Steve takes a moment to wonder if she’s giving him a more scenic route in an effort to waste time or just to encounter more obstacles that might be troublesome for him. 

“I think it is perfectly understandable that you would be treated as an unknown, considering that’s precisely what you were when we recovered you.” She murmurs neutrally, lifting a graceful hand to trace the stair rail. 

Steve hesitates for a moment, considering the widened steps with some surprise. This building is not just designed for humans, then. Wider steps would be easier for more than just centaurs to navigate. Clearly, this organization, whomever they are, have a wide pool of employees. Then again, considering the hallway he had burst through in his earlier flight, it made a certain sort of sense. 

As he begins to step down them, Hill continues to speak, her tone distant and perhaps a little bored. “Your reactive nature earlier is also a contributing factor.” 

“As I was waking up in an unknown situation that turned out to be completely manufactured,” Steve points out with a growl. “I would like to point out I was completely justified in that reaction.”

It's little better than a _'you started it'_ , but in Steve's defense, _they had_. 

"Hmmm," She gives him a speculative look and makes a noncommittal sound. 

With the extended steps, he can move down the staircase smoothly, allowing him to consider both Maria and their surroundings. Steve can see a hint of claws curling at his words and a flitter of blue like scales visible against her skin when her hand tenses against the railing. Still, the scales are fainter than most of the Naiads he recalls from the war. He idly speculates that she’s a cross, which makes more sense considering the lack of freshwater in the immediate area and her comfort in the cool air of the building. 

Maria steps off the staircase without commenting, turning down a hallway and badging them through a set of double doors without remark. Their path turns into a hallway of offices, many with the lights off and doors closed. 

“So you recovered me and brought me to New York,” He echoes, studying the half-gutted, half-remodeled office building she is giving him a nickel tour of. The row of offices they’ve passed largely appear empty, though some of them were shuttered too closely to be anything but occupied. 

He wonders if any of these people know who he is, or that he’s here. If it matters to them, or if they wonder why. Maria doesn’t seem inclined to speak further, leading him down a shorter set of stairs into an open floor set up like a bullpen. 

She leads him past the empty grid of desks, waving a badge over a card reader and stepping into the waiting elevator. “A specialized team discovered you and the plane you crashed in the Arctic, two weeks ago.” 

“A specialized team, but not you,” Steve translates with a tilt of his head. “Are you with the SSR, or something else?” 

“The Director will answer your questions, you can save them for him.” Hill jerks her head, gesturing for him to join her. “Captain?” 

“Right…” 

Dislike for tight spaces aside, Steve gives the elevator a wary look before stepping into the car, encouraged by the sardonic arch of Hill’s brow and the way she waits patiently within. Chances are, the car is rated for centaurs or something similar, or the agent wouldn’t risk her safety by getting on there with him. 

_ ‘So what are you waiting for?’ _ He thinks to himself, bowing his head slightly to step into the car. Thankfully it’s roomy enough to allow him to circle around and stand facing the doors. They begin to close automatically, prompting him to give his tail a sharp snap to pull the braided length of it out of harm’s way. At his right, Hill’s hand never strays toward the control panel and no specific button illuminates, but they’re in motion either way. 

“I thought most Soldiers elected to bob their tails for war.” Hill murmurs, eying the trailing golden hair. “It seems like it would get in the way.”

“It can, so most guys do,” Steve counters, folding his arms over his chest and staring blankly ahead at the doors. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hill considering him, following coiled length of his tail and then looking up at his styled hair. His tail is white gold, nearly white against the gold of his coat. The hair on his head is darker, a medium shade of blond, darker at the roots, sculpted carefully into shape. 

The Captain didn’t want to think about who had groomed him in his sleep. After recovering him from the ice, it was clear that someone had combed and braided his tail for him while he was recovering. Probably the same person who had cleaned the ash and dirt off of his face, who had carefully combed his hair and put pomade in it. 

_ ‘At least it’s just a simple three-strand braid,’ _ He thought to himself, folding his arms over his chest as he lashed his tail idly.  _ ‘Not a more complex plait or braid pattern.’ _

Curling a hand over his own arm, Steve brushes idly at his skin with his thumb, the gesture self-soothing. Cleaning his hair and skin was one thing, made sense considering he was likely in medical after they recovered him from the ice and figured out he was still alive. The care of his tail was different, it implied a greater level of patience, of investment, than he was willing to consider. It was bad enough that he’d been stripped, groomed and redressed while unconscious. 

“Why didn’t you, then?” Hill asks as they speed past floors, impatient when he fails to provide an explanation. 

Steve blinks, frowning faintly as he grasps for the threads of the conversation. _‘Why didn’t you cut your hair, war-bob your tail. Why didn’t you mutilate yourself for a cause you claim to hold so dear?’_

He almost tries to consider it from her point of view, the general distance afforded to her by the barrier of history. The emotional distance, the philosophical and mental differences when viewing it as an outsider species. It doesn’t work, instead, his response falls out in a dry, sardonic tone. “For the same reason you didn’t remove your fins to better fit under a helmet for work, I expect.” 

Hill flinches like he struck a nerve, but he pays her little mind. 

In his mind’s eye, Steve can see a banner of black and silver whipping in the wake of Bucky’s shadowy figure. He can hear the heavy-silk snap of the wind rushing over them. Remembers saying that a wartime bob would certainly be easier to deal with than hair that seemed to do nothing but weigh him down. 

“I wasn’t always gonna be a Soldier,” Steve continues with a careless shrug. “I’m not the only one who felt that way. Some of us chose not getting clipped as a way of expressing that. Sometimes a dame likes a guy with a tail. What’s it matter now? It was a long time ago.” 

“Just curious,” Hill shrugged. “I don’t see many centaurs in the field, and you’re the first I’ve talked to for any length of time.” 

“Don’t often see Naiads in a city, guess we’re even,” Steve replies. “Where’re we headed, anyhow?” 

“To your meeting with the Director,” Hill replies as the car comes to a halt, the doors whispered open. “Well, Captain? Go ahead, he’s expecting you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope we're enjoying this!   
> ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

Stark Industries New York is a newly refinished and handsome building, towering over many of its fellows in Manhattan. The lobby itself is a sprawling space, lit by both floor-to-ceiling length glass walls and windows as well as elegant fixtures on the walls and ceiling. Polished marble floors the color of storm clouds stretch from the front doors to the gleaming mahogany reception counter, from the counter to the distant wall of elevators. Smaller seating areas stationed on plush carpet islands are set up around the room, including two different groupings filled with a number of brightly colored toys for any children that might be visiting.

Two low-impact dressed security guards, disguised in simple suits, linger near the lobby doors during business hours. There are still more posted near the desk and elevators. Beyond the security and guests, there are three receptionists behind the counter, fielding calls and directing the walk-in clientele to the correct elevator or office. Two other suited employees functioning as greeters move throughout the room, one of them always taking care to cover the doors so each person entering is noticed and addressed.

Fresh out of a harrowing cab ride that had impressed him beyond expectation, James Rhodes gives a faint smile as he moves through the front doors. Without hesitation he passes both the security guards and sitting areas, angling toward one of the executive elevators in an out of the way corner. The lobby isn’t terribly busy or of great interest to him, so he finds no cause to linger seeing as things are moving smoothly.

A small but elegant woman in a business suit spins on him with an overly sweet smile, her eyes just a fraction larger than a normal human. They’re wide and dark, colored like an oil slick, and narrowing as they fix on him. The air hums around her and her skin gleams, luminescent.

“Welcome to Stark Industries, please check in and pick up a badge at the front desk.”

 _‘Part pixie,’_ He speculates to himself as he moves past her, noting how her eyes narrowed to slits until the color virtually disappears behind the golden sheen of her lashes.

“Sir?”

She continues speaking in a falsely bright tone to the handsome man moving smartly across the marble lobby floor. He doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t seem to take notice of her, further drawing attention to himself beyond the fact that he’s the only being that hasn’t been drawn to the gleaming marble and polished wood reception desk dominating a distant wall.

His chocolate colored skin glints with a faint sheen of gold, even beneath the synthetic light of the lobby. When he gives no notice of hearing she steps forward, raising a forestalling hand to catch at his arm as he passes.

“ _Sir_?”

He goes stone-still under her arm, halting as a predatory sort of patience creeps over his muscular form. There’s a tilt of a proud jaw and then black eyes are fixing on her, the strange vertical slit pupil expanding in a starburst of gold. The alien look freezes her in place, fingers tensing where they rest lightly on the leather sleeve of his jacket. Wordlessly he shoots her a sharp-toothed smile, white and warning, before gently lifting her fingers from his sleeve with a claw-tipped hand.

“Don’t you worry, I have all the identification I need.” James Rhodes murmurs as he sidesteps her and moves to the executive elevator. The smart doors swish open with a cheerful chime, and as he settles inside with his arms folded behind his back at parade rest he gives her another sharp grin. “You have a good day now.”

A light inside the executive elevator flickers blue-white, a British voice issuing from the speakers. “It is so good to see you, Sir.”

The doors begin to close, and she doesn’t move forward or try to stop him, this time.

It’s certainly a more intelligent option for her, getting between a dragon and their hoard is not something that is done lightly.

 

When the elevator halts, James Rhodes paces out of the car with a faint nod to the security monitoring it, continuing out into the open floor without a word. As he makes his way through the sub-basement he finds himself in, he spares the barest glance for his surroundings. Instead of a foyer or a hallway, the elevator bay opens directly into an open floor plan, a high-ceilinged garage-type space.

It’s Tony’s favorite place in Stark Tower, the nearest approximation to his Malibu house that he could manage. Aside from the Executive Elevator, there’s a freight elevator to one side that gives access to higher basement levels and the loading dock floor. Beyond that, the room is devoted on one side to a framed in server room, a living area themed space and a section of projection screens. The remainder of the framed-off space houses a garage set up in the back corner, past the freight elevator and filled with equipment, tools and another set of vehicles. In the wide open space between Rhodes and the garage, there are several vehicles of various makes and models, in varying states of functionality and refurbishment.

Seeing no movement among the vehicles, Rhodes almost heads for the distant set of stairs. He knows they lead down to the next sub-basement, and thinks perhaps Tony bolted down there for more tinkering. Hand reaching for the railing, he detours at the last minute. There’s the sound of a wrench coming from the garage, along with a mumbled chain of encouraging words in a flirty, coaxing tone.

“That’s it, honey. You know you wanna be good for me, you know you do. Sweet baby, Tony’s gonna take good care of you.”

Rhodes shakes his head, smiling to himself as he steps around an old hot rod that his best friend has partially disassembled. Sure enough, when he cranes his head to look under the car, he can see it’s set up in one of Tony’s modified mechanic bays. There’s just enough room for a carefully contorted body to fit beneath it.

Jutting out from beneath the front quarter panel is a cherry bay equine body, the long tangle of black silken tail clotted with engine oil. The thick length is half-braided and half tangled, Rhodey is willing to bet Tony’s been on an engineering binge for at least two days. He can see black grease hand prints marring the deep red coat hair as well, like his best friend has been fiddling with engine parts and just idly smearing oil on everything he touched afterward.

Strewn near the car’s rear wheel well, draped over a toolbox, caught around one of the centaur’s rear fetlocks are various elements of cast-off formalwear. A tie here, a waistcoat there, a suit jacket. There’s probably a thousand dollar pocket square under the ratchet perched on the running-board of the car. Wherever Tony was before he was working in the garage was a fancy venue, either a gala or dinner.

 _‘Definitely Tony,’_ Rhodey thinks to himself.

Though the other half of the centaur in question is under the vehicle itself, now and then James can see the hint of a black-tipped flight feather when his friend moves the right way. Tony tends to express with his wings when his hands are otherwise occupied, he loves the dramatics of a good gesture. It doesn’t work as well under a vehicle, but the dramatics are second nature, and sometimes he can’t help it.

 _‘SunScale, why else would I have wings but to show them off? Honestly.’_ Tony always says when Rhodey grumbles at him for dramatic wing gestures that have endangered various table-sitting objects through the years. _‘Have you seen me? Here let me show you again…’_

As is often the case when Tony Stark is involved, there’s only one in the world, and of course, that one is Tony himself. Rhodey shakes his head to himself, folding his arms across his chest as he takes up a leisurely lean against a nearby toolbox. Predictably, several minutes pass without Tony taking any note of the fact that he’s no longer alone.

 _‘If you don’t speak up now, there won’t be any getting him out of here until dinner…’_ He thinks to himself.

“You know, when I said I’d pick you up at noon, I somehow figured you’d be ready if I showed up at one o’clock.” Rhodey murmurs in a fondly indulging tone. “And yet here you are, sweet talking a lady that’s quite a bit older than you. No shame at all, huh kid?”

“Rhodey?” Tony mutters from under the car with the clang of a wrench echoing around him, his figure going stock-still for a moment before he launches into wild motion. “Is that my Golden Graham? My favorite lucky lizard in all the land?”

If there’s one thing being friends with Tony Stark has taught James Rhodes through the years, it’s that there’s no graceful way for a centaur to get under, or out from under, a vehicle. What he can do while he’s under there is an entirely different matter, but everything else about the task is often awkward and clumsy. Even considering the specialized equipment Tony designed and made in order to work on his vehicles in his chosen method, Rhodey always thought the kid would have figured out a better way to handle what was one of his favorite pastimes. But there were times and tasks, like these, that Tony preferred to do the hard way.

Which meant there was nothing for James to do but wait as a certain idiotic young stallion sorted himself out. “It might be… Why? You steppin' out with others now, Tones? Gonna hurt my feelings.”

“Falcor, you know I would never!” Tony protests, his wings, and tail flailing with his awkward movement. “It hurts that you would say that to my face, Gumdrop!”

“Hard to talk to your face when it’s stuck inside an engine block.” Rhodey teased, grabbing a grease-stained towel from the nearby workbench and rolling it up. “You wanna stop kissing up to this girl and give me a hug, brat?”

“I’m working on it, Cookie Crunch!” Tony wheedles. “JARVIS save progress, log stats and stick a pin in this. My Brownie Bite is here and I need to take him to dinner!”

“You better shower first, My Little Tony,” Rhodey teased, snapping the towel out in a quick pop that lands on Tony’s haunch. “You’re a mess, kid.”

“Ouch! Don’t do that to me, HoneyClaw, you’re going to turn me on and we’ll be in even more of a mess than we already are.”

“I definitely ain’t lettin’ you romance me just because you forgot about time and got distracted playin’ in the garage.” Rhodey counters, setting the rag aside and pushing the lift button on the car platform to move it out of his friend’s way. “That’d be like rewarding you for bad behavior. I ain’t that type of cowgirl.”

“Mushu, you wound me.”

“I remember you in College, you got worse than that from co-eds.” Rhodey counters, boredom coloring his words. “You gonna giddy up, or what? I’m beginning to think you didn’t miss me at all.”

“Slander!”

From beneath the car, Rhodey can hear Tony tossing and dropping various objects, wrenches, and bolts, engine components, spare parts. They all get shoved aside in a flurry of pings and clatters, Tony rolling to one side and skittering backward on his haunches as he pulls his torso out from beneath the slowly-rising car. He’s half-on, half-off his custom-built dolly, the red-wheeled board rolling wide due to his imbalance. Frantic grease-streaked hands curl up over the hood, skidding over gleaming paint as he gets a grip to help pull himself to his hooves.

Halting the lift, Rhodes smiles at the sight of the oil-streaked face and spiked upright hair, his expression widening into a grin at the way Tony is outright beaming at him. He shakes his head fondly as he watches Tony unfold his forelegs and scramble to his feet with an endearingly coltish clumsiness. Once upright the young mechanic throws himself across the space between them, and whether the kid is oil-covered or not Rhodey’s arms are wide open for him, wrapping around him without hesitation. He folds Tony into his arms and lifts his chin, tucking Tony with his bird’s nest hair beneath it easily. Warm hands slide around the billionaire's ribs and back, settling over his spine and just above where golden skin turns to deep red horsehair at Tony's waist. Because he can get away with it, Rhodey makes sure to skate a clawed hand from red-coated withers to the shoulder joint of one of Tony's wings, stroking the ruffled feathers into some semblance of order. 

In addition to being young, Anthony Stark happens to be gracefully built, compact and built for speed like his Italian mother. It serves him well when he takes flight, his weight easily managed by the massive red and black wings currently folded atop and parallel to his equine back, but made life difficult for him in college. Tiny or not, he had commanded attention, and Rhodey to this day is still endlessly glad he pulled the kid out of the bar fight when he had the chance. Even now, a decade later, Tony fits easily under Rhodey’s chin even in his human form, as he always has. It’s as good as home, for them both.

“I am glad to see you…” Tony mumbles into Rhodey’s chest, his tone going a bit bashful as his tail lashes from side to side. “But now that you mention it, food sounds awfully good?”

Giving a bark of laughter that in his other form would have resulted in a gout of flame, Rhodey pulls back with a shake of his head. “I’m not going out in public with you lookin’ like that. And I’m not sitting with you on the couch like that either. So you can either take a shower and fancy up and we’ll go out on the town, or you can shower and I’ll order some of our favorites to eat on the sofa when you’re done.”

“If I promise to show you off tomorrow, can we do the second one?” Tony asks hopefully, giving a faint flick-wag of his tail. “I’ll wine and dine you later, SunScale, I promise.”

“You’re lucky I’m craving Thai like nobody’s business,” Rhodey sighs, stepping away just enough to snatch up the towel again and roll it up. He pops it quickly, tapping Tony on the hindquarters with a smirk. “Get going, Strawberry Shortcoat, time’s wasting.”

“So mean to me, Golden Growl.” Tony sighs, swiping at the towel like an angry kitten. “So, so mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We always need more Rhodey... Always.  
> Also, these idiots and their nicknames. I cannot even.  
> ❤️


	5. Chapter 5

Steve gives Hill a sidelong look before stepping out of the elevator and into yet another unremarkable hallway, this one with grey painted walls and tiled floors. He’s not surprised by the nearly identical surroundings, having spent a significant amount of time in various secret bases for both allies and the enemies during the war. Oftentimes the buildings were bland and unassuming, a maze of identical halls and similar neutral paint schemes. 

Considering the fact that he still doesn’t really know who has him or how to regard them, the situation leaves Steve feeling tense. Are they allies? Are they enemies? Tension shoots down his spine from skull to tail, making him snap the braided length of his tail in unspoken frustration. Without his armor his flanks and barrel feel unshielded and vulnerable, ratcheting up his unrest as he gives Agent Hill his back. 

Whether she can read his discontent or not, Hill follows him out into the hallway wordlessly, her boot heels making soft clicks on the white tile. When it becomes apparent that he’s waiting for her lead to continue on, she moves past him at her default brisk pace. Behind them the elevator doors close, cutting that off as an avenue of escape and without any other options, Steve follows her once more. At the end of the hall, there are a set of double doors that Hill pushes through without hesitation, stepping into a conference room with a row of desks lined up against the far side. 

Steve follows her, turning with interest to face the open space to the right. Though there are no chairs present, there’s what appears to be a large glass-sided water tank on something like a dolly cart. The tank itself is three feet or so tall, not nearly enough for a full-time habitat, little more than a temporary solution for the occupant, able to be wheeled from room to room. 

_ ‘No wonder the elevator was roomy,’  _ Steve notes as he considers the tank and cart parked near the center of the room. The whole thing is set at an angle, facing away from him and toward the multitude of screens situated around the remaining three sides. 

The occupant is a large man, dark-skinned and glaring, with a black eyepatch and tac shirt beneath a leather trench coat. Snarling orders to staff members beyond the screens, he whips around to glare at the new arrivals, hands curling over the edge of the tank as though he’s situating himself before looming at them. The reason for the tank is clear, instead of legs his lower body is that of an octopus. Through the clear water and glass of the tank Steve can see the lower half of his body is a blend of grey, purple and black, eight thick tentacles twisting and curling through the water. 

_ ‘A shifter or mer?’ _ Steve wonders.  _ ‘Or possibly part Kraken?’  _

He’s seen stranger things, though admittedly they were at some of the old circus and freak shows that used to travel to New York during his childhood. The fact that this man is here and seems to be in charge, within his travel tank, certainly indicates some status. So then, he probably is the one in charge. 

“So, finally made your way down here, I see.”  The man in the tank notes dryly, seemingly done with his quiet assessment. “Little different from the last op-center you were in, I bet.” 

“Little bit,” Steve notes politely, though his preliminary findings were that most of the differences were mere creature comforts. “Director?”

“Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD,” He confirms, hesitating for a moment before leaning out over the edge of the tank and extending his right hand. “Captain.”

“Captain Steven Rogers, Field Command for the Howling Commando and Commandos Liaison for the Strategic Scientific Reserve,” Steve confirms, accepting the handclasp and turning it into a brisk shake. “Though after nearly seventy years on ice, I guess that’s probably up for debate. In any case, it’s nice to meet you, Director Fury. Haven’t seen much, but what I have seen is certainly impressive.”

There’s no harm being polite, even if he isn’t sure he trusts them yet. 

“Just Fury is fine, Captain, and we can certainly discuss your military standing at length later. I’ll even have Hill give you the tour, if you accept our offer.” Fury offers with a shrug, returning his hand to the edge of the tank. 

“Offer?” Steve echoes blankly, turning his head to shoot Hill a curious look. 

Agent Hill stands to one side, a picturesque Officer at ease in her environment. Her eyes are fixed on a nearby screen, hand rising up now and again to tap and swipe various files and windows away. She gives no notion of his attention, nor of anyone else in the room. She may as well be deaf to the entire discussion. 

“I’ve got a situation that needs handling, and a team that needs leading,” Fury continues, turning to face one of his screens. His movement sends the water sloshing, a faint wave splashing over the tank edge and dripping down the glass. “They’re rather unorthodox, and would be comparable to your old specialized unit. Figured you might be interested. If I’m right about what’s heading our way, we’ll need you to save the world.” 

“The world’s an awfully big place, and I’ve been out of it for a while.” Steve returns with a tilt of his head and a faint, reflexive narrowing of his eyes. “What kind of team, and exactly how do you expect a small group to save the world?” 

“Some of them are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the best of the best from the organization that inherited the mantle of your old S.S.R. They’re a pretty talented pair of individuals,” Fury says in an offhand manner that immediately gets Steve’s attention. “If you’re interested, Hill here can get you some files and explain further. Considering the fact that it would be your team, there are some other choices for members that could be recruited from our organization.”

Steve chews at the inside of his mouth, quietly thoughtful. The idea of building a team comprised solely of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents makes him somewhat hesitant. There’s likely a camaraderie among the agents before he even enters the picture, which raises some questions about the likelihood of them following his orders in the field. 

Perhaps Fury sees that because he shifts in the tank and then gives a shrug before continuing. “I even have leads on one or two outside sources, if you feel like putting in the work to round them up. They’d be heavy hitters, in the instance you feel the team is in need of some more enhanced forces.”

Heavy hitters, that he has to round up? Steve narrows his eyes. He can’t help but wonder if the reason he’s on the team is so that he can do the legwork for these other powerhouses. Maybe Fury needs him to catch these other individuals in the first place, and the building of the team afterward is incidental. Between that and the fact that he’s not aware of the opposition, Steve feels a certain level of wariness toward the idea of putting a team together.

“Don’t really like running blind into a situation,” Steve returns after several moments of silent consideration. “If you don’t mind, I’ll need a little more information. So, where exactly were you thinking we’d start?” 

Fury smiles, a flash of teeth that’s more challenge than approval. “Hill? Bring the Captain the Initiative Files.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve sort of took over on this one, I hope everyone enjoyed seeing what he was up to!  
> Are we surprised by the latest arrival?  
> ❤️ ~ Wardog


	6. Chapter 6

Considering how long they’ve known each other, James Rhodes regards Tony Stark as family and vice versa. As such, he’s practically a resident in any house belonging to the Stark name. Therefore, James Rhodes is unsurprised to find that Tony has once again designed him an entire suite. At least it’s on Tony’s own floor and not an entirely separate level of the Tower. Possibly sensing Rhodes would lecture him about the unnecessary extravagance of it all, the billionaire had pointed him in the general direction and then disappeared into his own suite to shower. Knowing it would be a bit before Tony returned, Rhodey eventually gave into curiosity and went to explore his room.

The fact that Tony put a little brass plate star on the door is an understated hint that his friend has, once again, gone all out. Opening the door with a fond grin, Rhodes steps inside and nods to himself. As expected, the rooms are decorated in typical tongue-in-cheek Tony style. Rhodes can easily recognize that the colors are pulled from one of his old Air Force shirts.

The shades of blue present in every room from the master bathroom to the sitting area and bedroom reflect the official Air Force ultramarine, as well as a hue in either direction. There’s an ombre pattern in the curtains, the colors echoed in the bathroom tile, woven into the elaborate rug in the sitting area. The couch and chairs in the living area are a darker shade of blue, any hard surfaces in the furniture crafted of a dark redwood. There are pops of gold present on brushed metal hardware and white in the form of plush carpets, throw pillows, and the cream-gold of the wood or tile floors.

Rhodes shakes his head as he moves to the dresser, pawing through fully-stocked drawers to find suitable sleepwear. Finding a soft pair of pants and a shirt that suits him, he changes out of his current clothes, hangs his leather jacket on a convenient hair, and shuffles back out of his room to Tony’s suite.  

*

“Tony, dinner’s gonna be here any minute,” Rhodey complains as he stalks through the suite. “If you want me to brush your tail you better get your butt out here.”

“Sweetheart, I’d never presume to impose on you!” Tony calls from the depths of his room. “But if you’re offering…”

“You and I both know you wouldn’t miss out on a chance to have me brush your hair, I don’t know why you bother lyin’ like that,” Rhodey teased as he halted in the bedroom doorway.

Tony stands within, a towel draped over his hindquarters and half-wrapped around his tail. His wings are mantled, wrist joint resting on the floor as he leaves them unfolded to aid in their drying. He’s half-way through buttoning up the small onyx buttons on the long sleeve he’s pulled on over his black tank top, and Rhoey rolls his eyes playfully as he watches.

“Dunno why you’re gettin’ all dressed up,” He teased. “It’s only me here, and I’m more exasperated than impressed when you decide to rebuild an engine while wearing a designer suit.”

“SugarScale,” Tony wheedles, spinning around and slinging his towel vaguely in the direction of the bathroom with a flip of his tail. “That’s hurtful and blatantly untrue!”

“It really ain’t,” Rhodey counters. “Though I’ll give you the painful bit, I hear the truth hurts.”

“Ass,” The centaur mumbles, wilting a bit. “Why do I invite you over? Honeycrisp, all you do is abuse me.”

“You like it, Little Red,” Rhodey counters, shoving him gently. “Come on, get your kit and I’ll have that tail of yours sorted by the time food gets here. I can braid it once it's dry,  but only if you haven’t picked out another one of your stupidly insane patterns.”

“The eight strand was stunning when it was done,” Tony points out, flicking his tail as he moves to fetch the gleaming wood box that houses his grooming kit with all his combs and brushes. “All the girls at the office were envious, Pepper sent them the picture.”

“Mighta been,” Rhodey shrugs, picking up a folded scarlet towel and carting it out of the bedroom. “Still took me two hours to get the hang of. Not doing that again, kiddo. Especially not for you to sit on the sofa and watch dumb movies with me.”

“So if we were going to a gala, you’d doll me up right?” Tony wheedles, following after him. “Right?”

“Nothing but the best for my date,” Rhodey promises with his most deadpan expression. “Only the finest for my arm candy.”

“Ugh, screw you and the horse you rode in on.” Tony giggles, swatting at him with a free hand as they move down the hallway toward the theater room. “You’re the meanest old lizard I’ve ever known.”

“Keep up with the _old_ bullshit,” Rhodey grumbles, pushing the theater door open and settling himself on their favorite couch and unfurling the towel over his lap.

Part of the reason it had become his favorite was the proximity to Tony’s favorite lounge. The barely-raised padded platform was perfect for the centaur to settle on, with a wrap-around back that allowed his wings to drape over it comfortably.

He grins as Tony follows after him, setting the kit within reach before folding legs under himself and curling up on his lounge with his back to Rhodey and his wings spreading over the pillowed structure. “I’ll clip unflattering words into your coat, and then Pepper will make you shave so you don’t insult shareholders at your next dinner party… And you’ll basically lose three times over.”

“You’re so vindictive,” Tony whines, petulantly fanning and flattening his wings as he spread himself across the remaining empty space in a fit of pique. He hesitates for a moment and then harrumphs, snapping his tail up and across Rhodey’s knees like a throw blanket. “Shut up and brush me.”

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you,” Rhodey teases as he gives the black waterfall of hair a playful tug with the towel and then reaches for a comb with an amused shake of his head. “Must be my old age.”

*

Rhodey's known for years now that the best way to make Tony practically boneless is to play with his hair or brush and braid his tail. With his tail washed and brushed out to try, the Dragon Shifter moves to toy with his friend's hair instead. Sprawled across the couch and now Rhodey’s lap, Tony pillows his head on folded arms and half-dozes in his friend’s hold. Eyes half-lidded and turned in the direction of the television, Tony mumbles in contentment as Rhodey’s fingers card through the soft waves of his hair. 

“Not sleepin’ on me, are ya kid?” Rhodey teases in a soft voice, scratching obligingly behind Tony’s ear. 

It’s an involuntary reaction that makes one of Tony’s hind legs kick out idly, thudding against the padded bulk of the couch. Otherwise disinclined to reply, the billionaire grumbles and stretches, tilting his head to lean into the touch. “Mmnmm.” 

“Pretty sure you’re lyin’,” Rhodey laughs, fingertips scritching over Tony's scalp again. “You awake enough to talk about your and J’s latest stunt?”

“No stunt here,” Tony slurs a little, burrowing his face into his arms. “There was a golden dragon above Central Park today. SHIELD got overly nosey, or so I heard.” 

The Shifter hums, hand going still in his friend’s hair for a moment. “Overly?”

“Think they want to recruit for a new task force.”

“A task force? For a super secret outside-the-military organization? What good is a Golden Dragon?” Rhodey frowns. “That’s the opposite of undercover, kid. What makes you think-”

“Gonna pretend you aren’t asking me that.” Tony snorts, derisive and drawling. “How about we just trust me and J know what we’re doing? That's a much better tactic, Gumdrop.”

“No can do, kiddo. Now you've got me wondering. So there’s a new task force, one that doesn’t need stealth, and they’re after a flashy golden dragon.” Rhodey summarizes, tone still doubtful in spite of the faith he has in Tony’s meddling. “And you... handled it?”

Tony’s next grumble is sheer contentment, cat-who-got-the-cream levels of smug pride. “Yeah, we sure as hell did.” 

"Mmm, based on that response I probably don't wanna know." Rhodey laughs, white teeth flashing just a little sharper, since Tony’s eyes are closed and he’s not likely to notice. “Always watching out for me, huh kid?” 

“Course I am, HoneyScale,” Tony promises. “No one gets to stalk you, 'cept me.”

"Awww baby, you're so good to me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Rhodey are just, cute.  
> ❤️ ~Wardog

**Author's Note:**

> So, it was gonna be short, and now it isn't... because _Toni_ , obviously. And also the blame must fall to the 'Discord Hellscape' aka WinterIron server, that is my beloved home. With heavy thanks to the encouragement of my First Fandom Wife [Rebelmeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg/pseuds/rebelmeg), because I'm high-strung, okay? You keep me standing, Cupcake.  
> To everyone on the WI server, if I haven't said it lately, I love y'all.  
> ❤️ ~Wardog


End file.
